


Faded Memories

by mother_of_halla



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Agents of Fen'Harel, Angst, Arlathan, Avvar Inquisitor, Bisexual Character, Character Death, Friends to Lovers, Inquisition Agents (Dragon Age), Memory Loss, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Romance, Secret Relationship, Slavery, Solavellan, Sparring, The Fade, Young Fen'Harel, Young Solas, pre-Veil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:46:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6676552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_of_halla/pseuds/mother_of_halla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slave to their leaders, a leader of the slaves. The legend of Ghilan'nain is wrong. And now, with a breach in the sky and demons on the ground legends are returning to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning of the End- 712 F.A.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me forever to finally get onto paper, but I'm very excited to share it. I have no idea how long it will be, but it is going to be going between the Dragon age and Arlathan- so chances are it will be pretty long. Please leave kudos and constructive comments, this is my first multi-chapter fic and my second fic ever, so...
> 
> This first chapter has some uncomfortable moments dealing with the death and the body of Ghilan'nain's friend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghillan'nain is summoned by the Evanuris in the middle of the night.

 

****

Arlathan

712 F.A.

(-2168 Ancient)

 

It was late into the night when the messenger arrived. The light outside the window was the pale, weak light of the moon and the stars, and it had been hours since she had been dismissed from her duties. Regardless, Ghilan'nain still sat at her desk concentrating on her work when she heard the knock. Making her jump and lose focus on her concealed project, her hand jumping away from the page mid-sketch. With her heart in the pit of her stomach, the pale woman doused the veilfire torch, and by the light filtering in through the window, she gathered her notes and stuffed them carefully into the false bottom of her desk drawer.

Taking a second glance to ensure nothing was out of place, she pulled the curtains closed- they were mercifully quiet- and smoothed out her nightgown. Another knock signified the impatience of her visitor, and Ghilan'nain hurried to answer- the last thing she wanted was one of the council to think that she was intentionally snubbing their summons. She dreaded opening the door and facing them now. There had been too many hours spent in close quarters the previous day, she had spent too long avoiding questions, biting her tongue, stuck in general unhappiness just as she was stuck attending to them. She had reached the end of her rope and feared that too much time with them again so soon might cause an outburst- the consequences of which would be catastrophic. With a deep breath and a careful expression of polite confusion, she opened the gilded door.

Her heart dropped again when she saw the familiar blood red markings and beautiful gray eyes of Dirthaman's second, Isalathe, but she kept her expression neutral. “Do you need something?”

The woman nodded and grunted affirmation the best that she could, taking a step back and gesturing that Ghilan'nain should follow her. Reluctantly, she did so, closing the door behind her and trailing a good distance behind the warrior. It was not unusual for Ghilan'nain to be called upon by the seconds personally, rather it happened so frequently that she had even forged friendships with some. Isalathe was by far her least favorite of the council's seconds. It wasn't fear of the woman that caused Ghilan'nain to keep her distance, but rather wariness of her master. She knew too well that each of Dirthamen's own were fiercely loyal to him and trained rigorously to spy and eavesdrop upon any who crossed their path-even the council members, though that was always staunchly denied. Upon rising into the ranks of Dirthamen's high slaves their tongues were removed, but even though they were speechless, each one delivered reports to Isalathe herself at the end of the day, and in turn, she gave everything to their master. No, as lithe and powerful and stunning as the woman she walked behind was, the real threat came from what she might see, hear , or even suspect- rather than anything she might do. Such were the ways of Dirthamen, wheedling secrets into the open and using them to get his way. Ghilan'nain found herself wishing that Mythal had sent her own second, Arana, a friend that she would have no hesitation following through poorly lit hallways clad in nothing but her silken nightgown.

They passed through corridor after corridor, and as they walked, Ghilan'nain's unease grew. It was well past time for even the slaves to have taken to bed, yet dozens of others rushed through. They were slaves, and they wore the marks of Dirthamen, Sylaise, Mythal, and most concerning, Falon. Something truly disturbing must have occurred, if the council were rattled enough to rouse him. As for her summons, she could not puzzle out any reason  she  would be required. It had been decades since the last time she had been summoned in the middle of the night with no warning, and the last time, she remembered pale faces, the acrid stench of bile, bloodshot eyes- there had been poison in the kitchens, a poorly planned assassination that had killed one of Sylaise's own. But that had been in a time of war, and their path was not taking them toward the kitchen. Their trek took them to the opposing wing of the fortress, where the higher ranks of soldiers and slaves were quartered, including Isalathe and her fellow panelan'virelan. Ghilan'nain's suspicion of the woman reached its peak as she turned down the hallway toward those very rooms, where seven of the best warriors in the world spent their hours, but when Ghilan'nain looked, she saw a welcome sight.

Stepping quickly forward to greet her friend, she scanned the faces of the others gathered with him, at the end of the hallway. At a specific door. Beside him, they all wore the marks of Mythal, branding them as guards, warriors, and the same as the woman whose door they now stood before. When Isalathe reached the group, a good distance ahead of Ghilan'nain, she did not pause except to make a bow to June before shouldering past the guards and through the door, which shut behind her with force. Despite the odd hour, her lack of proper attire, and the current situation she smiled as she approached.

“Blessings, and good evening.” She offered in greeting, hoping that in answer, he might tell her something of what they were both doing here.

“It is not, but I thank you.” He replied, taking in her appearance as he met her eye. “Did Isalathe not grant you a single moment to dress?” He asked critically.

The reminder of her current state made Ghilan'nain cringe, diverting her eyes to the floor. “It seemed to be an urgent matter, arani, so I came quickly. If my appearance offends, I will change-”

June sighed, his jaw clenching, but when she looked up, his eyes were sad and kind, and his hand rough and calloused on her bare shoulder as he attempted to comfort her unease. “My concern is for you, da'lath'in. Tonight will not be easy.”

The door opened once more, and June snatched his hand away from her, clasping them together in front of himself as he turned to face the newcomer. It was Emaronun, holding the door open as he called to the two in the hall.

“Rajelan, the council waits.”

June dismissed him with an abrupt wave of his hand, like swatting an insect flying too close. He returned his attention back to Ghilan'nain before Elgar'nan's servant had stepped back, but the door closed with another solid thud before June spoke again. “I am sorry that you must do this, but there is no one else.”

Ghilan'nain shivered as her unease finally took root inside her. The seed that had been planted even before she had opened her door bloomed fully and the weight of it pulled her heart into her stomach. She bit her tongue as the question formed. Needing to know, suspecting, but not wanting to hear the words. If he told her-if it was spoken-then it was true, and she could not hide in denial.

Her shiver seemed to remind her companion of her state of dress, as he smoothly pulled his outer robe off of his own shoulders to offer it to her. She accepted it gratefully, shrugging the over-large deep purple garment on with his assistance. “My thanks,” she croaked quietly, her throat closing around her question before she could ask. She settled for turning her eyes on June, wide and pleading for answers. For barely a moment he held her gaze, and when he looked away, she saw him wince. He reached out to her, placing a gentle guiding hand upon her shoulder, puling her toward the door.

“I am sorry, da'lath'in. I wish you did not have to see this, but we cannot keep them waiting forever.”

Ghilan'nain allowed her friend to guide her forward, and as Mythal's guards stood aside, she found herself remembering the last time she had been here. There had been no guards, no hollow pit of aching sadness in her stomach or grief clawing at her throat to make itself known. She blinked away tears, staring directly into the light of the veilfire torch beside the door to dry her eyes. Emotions warred inside her as she struggled to remain calm. The bottom of June's overcoat swept the floor behind her reluctant feet. The idea of showing weakness to the entire council made her feel ill, but the grief was fresh and refused to be denied. Ghilan'nain and June were only a few steps from the door when she stopped, pleading for a moment alone, promising to follow shortly.

With a grim look June entered the room, and when the door closed she could feel the sound in her chest, rattling around in the void where her aching heart had been. Ghilan'nain slumped against the wall, pressing her forehead to the chilled stone with a choked sob. Her eyelids fluttered as she tried to stop the tears and her mind raced to process the situation. The council couldn't know of her grief, that was abundantly clear- she only trusted June and Mythal, and those were tenuous, fair-weather relationships. As for the rest, her stomach knotted at the thought of what the rest might do if they realized their favorite plaything had become close to someone outside of the council. Dirthamen and Anduril would be especially incensed, with their views on her status. It had always been a sensitive subject with Arana- their proclaimed ownership of Ghilan'nain- if only because it was in stark contrast with Arana's own belief that no being could be owned. At this thought, Ghilan'nain felt sick. Arana had made a game of her spite for years, veiled barbs and slights hidden behind posturing, they had laughed together at the end of the day counting each remark.

Suddenly the game didn't seem to be that funny, and as Ghilan'nain wiped her eyes, she looked into the fire again, allowing the bright heat to dry her unshed tears. Two slow deep breaths steadied her nerves as she stepped toward the door, meeting the eyes of one of Mythal's servants with a steely gaze, as Arana would have done. The servant who met her eyes quickly averted them, and rushed to open the door before her. With one last deep breath, Ghilan'nain entered her friend's chambers.

Immediately her eyes were drawn to Dirthamen and the scene that he loomed over in the center of the room, but she allowed her gaze to quickly slide away, retaining nothing of the spectacle. She caught sight of Andruil stalking along the side of the room like a caged panther, palpable rage and irritated frustration rolling off of her in waves. Beyond her, June had joined into furtive conversation with Sylaise and Mythal in the far corner, and a gentle snore alerted her to Falon's sleeping presence in the bed.

Elgar'nan was the first to speak. From his position behind Dirthamen, he snapped at Ghilan'nain. “Move along, girl. We cannot wait all night. Examine the body and let us be done with this.”

The booming tenor of his voice in the small space reverberated in Ghilan'nain's head as she raised her eyes to the scene in front of her. Arana reclined in her washing basin, as if she were merely relaxing after a day of training, and in itself the scene was not a source of distress. Her mind had conjured a horrific and brutal scene that made this quiet truth a relief, and if it were not for the present company, Ghilan'nain may have come to peace with her friend's passing. It was Dirthamen, crouched over her like a carrion bird pawing at Arana's bare flesh and the filth that dripped from his tongue as his eyes met Ghilan'nain's that dashed all hope of peace.

Rage and adrenaline caused magic to spark at her fingertips, and she bit her tongue, and dug her nails into her palm beneath June's purple sleeves but even so, she feared that she might loose her control and strike him down. It seemed as if a decade passed between them as he goaded her, defiling her friend and she refrained from setting him ablaze. Her heart hammered in her chest and she felt the heat in her face, the warm, wet sensation of her own blood in her hands and the metallic taste in her mouth. The room seemed to spin as she made her decision to attack, and within the same heartbeat, Elgar'nan called her name.

“Ghilan'nain! You are no unblooded housemaid, to hesitate here and as I have told you- blushing is for children and Rahngirem. You will examine this girl. Now.” The man looked to his son, crouched before him. “Dirthamen, move away. Let the girl do her work.”

Petulant as ever, Dirthamen rolled his eyes at his father before rising and turning away, and Ghilan'nain, with rage still boiling in the pit of her stomach, swallowed thickly and stepped forward. A wisp of a thought and her bleeding ceased, the magic finding strength in her blood. Focused upon completing the task at hand as quickly as possible, Ghilan'nain looked for any and all outward signs of what might have killed Arana. There were no wounds, no signs of distress or vomiting, her airway seemed clear and her head was well away from the water. There was no odor of deathroot or blood lotus, and no other sign of harm. Reluctantly Ghilan'nain reached up to brush the hair away from Arana's face. She was cold, and her muscles had begun to tense. Her bathwater was chilled, and smelled of roses, but when Ghilan'nain removed her fingertips from the water they retained an oily residue. By touch alone, the residue was unidentifiable, and any smell had been replaced by that of rose blossoms. Skeptical of the wisdom behind the choice, but with no other available option, she touched the tip of her finger to her tongue.

Immediately, under the careful watch of the entire Council of Arlathan even the freshly awakened Falon, Ghilan'nain gagged, and rushed to find water. There was no guarantee that the washbasin was not similarly contaminated. Knowing this, she veered toward the only other water in the room-on the bureau. She heaved the vase of wildflowers off it's perch, ripped the flowers out and preceded to wash her hands and tongue with the water within, much to the shock and horror of Sylaise and Mythal who were in range of the flowers as they fell. Anyone in contact with Arana's body was at risk of a quick and painful death. Soaking wet and horrified, Ghilan'nain raced to the door adjoining Arana's room to Isalathe's and demanded that someone fetch clean water, and a lot of it. They stared at her blank faced and unfazed until Sylaise seconded the order and they sprang to movement. Ghilan'nain resisted to urge to heave the vase she still clutched at them, and resisted the lightning bolt thought of letting Dirthamen die. Instead, she turned and made a decision she knew she would regret.

“Dirthamen, come here, and touch nothing. Quickly.”

Just as the panelan'virelan had a moment before, Dirthamen failed to heed her, and this time no echo came, only the narrowing of his eyes. “I am a member of the council, slave. You come to me.” He sneered, setting the rage in her chest aflame once again. Ghilan'nain's nostrils flared and she tensed, ready to unleash the magic crackling at her fingertips. As she resigned herself to endure the punishment for attacking one of the council members, Mythal's voice cut through her cloud of emotion.

“Felasil! Do as she says!”

The rare insult seemed to have some effect upon Dirthamen's thick skull, as he rose and approached Ghilan'nain with the merest hint of his usual hauteur and affect, wearing a rather vexed expression. She didn't hesitate scrubbing his hands and forearms with what water was left, though the touch was repulsive and made her feel in need of a bath herself. Her mind worked even more quickly than her hands- the poison was very difficult to procure and it was a marvel that Dirthamen was still conscious. Concentrated High Wyvern Venom. Well known for it's fast action and potency, and viciously expensive and hard to procure. She explained this to the council as she washed the residual poison away from Dirthamen's skin.

A beat of silence then sudden cacophony accompanied by the electric crackling tingle of furious magic in the air as the council members began quarreling. Andruil, who had never ceased her predatory pacing, whirled upon her sister just as Mythal turned upon Elgar'nan. Ghilan'nain was brushed aside as they gathered in an angry rush, whispered threats and accusations flying amongst the six of them as clearly as the sparks from their hands. The seventh council member, Falon, watched his family with no surprise or concern, remaining reclined upon the bed as if this entire state of affairs held no meaning to him. The heated arguing was anything but abnormal for the council, their constant bickering was regular enough to keep time. In this case, however the situation was unique. One of the panelan'virelan had been murdered. An elite warrior and singular confidante of one of Arlathan's council had been assassinated in her own chamber-it was of no small concern.

Left to her own devices as she often was during these 'debates' Ghilan'nain usually returned to her own rooms and awaited a summons, but with Arana's body lying exposed she could not simply leave. A knock at the adjoining door announced the others returning with clean water-which was summarily deposited next to the entry by the remaining panelan'virelan before Ghilan'nain hurried them out again. Ghilan'nain returned to the tub of poison where her friend still reclined motionless, and was astonished when Falon joined her by Arana's side.

“Panelan'virelan die. It’s practically what they’re for.” He murmured to her on a breath. “But I did like Arana. She had a spirit that couldn't be matched.”

With a large lump in her throat, she found it impossible to respond. She merely nodded and gave him a small, teary-eyed smile of gratitude for his words- even in their callous delivery that was Falon's manner- which he answered with a brief comforting hand upon her shoulder. Together, with the use of magic, they lifted her form from the water and very carefully avoided contact with the water itself. The rest of the council continued their arguing as Falon removed the sheets and furs from the bed and they began to dry and cover Arana's body. It wasn't until dawn- when Ghilan'nain and Falon were nearly finished that Mythal released a lash of energy and effectively ceased their debate.

“We can make final decisions in proper time, but our most pressing issue is replacing my dear Arana.” When this was met with no more protest than the lingering scowls upon their faces, Mythal continued. “Now, we have not had to replace one of our seconds in a century, but the upcoming celebrations allow for a perfect opportunity-many of the tarvhen have already sent their champions to us. A simple change in the terms of the tournament, and Arana's successor will reveal themselves with an unmatchable strength and will- I have no doubt.”

A murmur of hushed and resigned agreement followed her final statement. Ghilan'nain had not even looked away from her task, knowing that these matters were above her concern. Whispers of cloth along the floor and closing doors led her to believe they were retiring for the moment, so when chilled fingers tilted her head up and away from Arana's face she was unduly startled.

Mythal looked down upon her with unending compassion and grief in her eyes, and Ghilan'nain took some comfort knowing she was not the only one mourning Arana- but the thought immediately made her stomach churn with guilt.

“Your task, lethal'lan, is very important.” Ghilan'nain resisted the urge to look at Arana's impassive face- but that was not Mythal's meaning. “The high slaves will need tending- they are strong but their battle wounds are not always tended as they should be- go and see that they are in proper health for the games.”

The shock of being ordered away bolted Ghilan'nain to the ground and stole away her voice once again, she opened her mouth to reply, but was unsuccessful- so she sat gaping like a fish until Mythal lost patience- her eyes and voice hardened and she ordered Ghilan'nain out, actually sending jolt of energy through her as an incentive to move. Her own resolve hardened then, and she looked up at Mythal.

“I will go. Once I see to finishing my current task, rajelan.” Her shoulder burned where Mythal's magic had hit her, but Ghilan'nain remained, even as she recognized the dangerous glint in her eyes.

There was no warning, no twitch of muscle as she prepared to lash out- only a narrowing of her eyes before Mythal struck her with lightning once more. Her heart stopped, time ceased to have meaning and there was only pain. It was blinding, all encompassing and Ghilan'nain could have lashed out against it, but Mythal was her ally even in her anger, and doing so would mean the end of everything. When the onslaught relented, vast amounts of pain remained, and Ghilan'nain was prepared to defy her again, but Falon interjected before she could.

“Arana will be seen to, Ghilan'nain, I swear it. If you wish to say goodbye, do so now-before you leave.” He stood, walking around her body rather than stepping over, and placed himself between Ghilan'nain and his mother. “Mother, I will see to all of these arrangements, you need not worry over the funeral and health concerns of slaves. Please, take Geal and take time for yourself before we reconvene later.”

Ghilan'nain didn't hear her reply, she was crouched over Arana's sheet-wrapped form, whispering her goodbyes to her spirit that lingered inside. After a few minutes, Falon approached, crouching beside her. His mother was gone.

“Go. Accomplish your task. There is nothing more you can do for Arana.”

It was the unexpected kindness with which he spoke that led Ghilan'nain to follow his gentle direction, and as she left, pain coursing through her from Mythal's attack, she looked back on Arana- Falon hunched over, tending to her with great gentleness- more than she had ever seen him show to any living creature- and she knew her friend was safe in his hands. She closed the door behind her and for the second time in mere hours, and much to her dismay, she was face to face with Isalathe.

 

 


	2. After the Storm-9:41 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghilly wakes in Haven for the first time.
> 
> Edit: Made chapter two a bit longer!

After the Storm-9:41 Dragon

Haven  
9:41 Dragon

Waking was like fighting the waves of the sea for Ghilly- on the cusp of breaking the surface only to be pushed under again, into the depths of unconsciousness. Each near miss brought glimpses of the world around her. She was too warm, the smoke of a nearby fire tickled her nose along with the stench of alcohol and blood, she was reclined on a straw bed, and the scratch of rough blankets pressed down on her. Her eyelids fluttered as she heard the hum of voices drawing near. Wooden legs scratched along the floor abruptly as someone overturned a chair, while at the same time the opening of the door admitted a man and a woman locked in serious conversation. The one who had occupied the toppled chair was dismissed, and the murmur of conversation was lost as the deep, smooth cadence lulled her and the pull of unconsciousness became too much once again.  


As she neared the waking world once again, there was something different- something unsettling that she could not place a finger on. The bed was the same- the fire perhaps a bit more dim than before- there was no hum of activity in the distance- perhaps it was late into the night. But it was the small tug on her hand- a light crush of squeezing fingers that had her jolting awake. A strange woman's strong hands were enfolded around her own left hand, and even though she was gloved she could feel the warmth of the contact. The gentle and unexpected touch accompanied the confusion and mild panic that had caused her to rise along with her heart rate. The woman clutching her hand stared as Ghilly sat upright. She was human- rounded ears and a tall frame couldn't hide that-even slouched low in a wooden chair. Dark eyes clouded with concern lit up with hope, half hidden behind a mess of curly hair.  


“Welcome back to the land of the living, my friend. How are you feeling?”  


The language was familiar, but she had no memory of speaking it. Elvhen felt natural on her tongue and so she responded, but this human woman did not understand.  


“I don't understand, Ghilly. My name is Asta. Do you remember me? Do you know what happened to you?” The woman asked slowly, removing one of her hands to push back her hair.  


Ghilly. Her name- that was something she could be sure of- but Asta and the words she used were at the same time strange and familiar. She struggled to find the words in this odd style of speech. For a moment they were both silent and the cracking of logs in the fire and the creatures outside became loud in her ears.  


“I do not know you. Where am I?” She asked stiffly.  


The stranger's eyes grew sad. “We're in Haven, with the people who pulled us out of the rift. You saved my life in the Fade, don't you remember?”  


Asta's gaze was intense, and Ghilly looked away, choosing to study the small cabin they were housed in as she attempted to make sense of her situation. Beyond the foreign taste of the language on her tongue and the confusion of waking up in a strange bed- the world itself felt wrong. The weight of each breath in her lungs, no crack of energy upon her skin, and there was something else missing- a connection she didn't know was there until it was gone. Strange. As she tried to recall the events Asta continued to describe to her, she became more and more aware of a pounding ache in her temples, behind her eyes.  


Ghilly shut her eyes tight against the pain. “Please- my head.”  


Asta jumped up, dropping the elf’s hand as if it had burned her and ripped open the door- letting in a wonderful rush of cold fresh air. Curious, Ghilly opened her eyes and peered past the human woman into the starlit night where a reflective pair of wide eyes caught hers, and Ghilly noted pointed ears and the elven woman’s lack of valaslin even as Asta rushed her away to find a healer. Just as quickly as she had risen, Asta closed the door and returned to Ghilly’s side, sitting on the bed beside her. Telling her that a healer would return shortly with a potion to ease her pain.  


“Would it not be simpler for you to heal me yourself? Surely you are capable of such a simple thing- would that I could do it myself-”  


Asta laughed, and her kind eyes met Ghilly’s. “I’m afraid I have no magic to help you. And the mage who was attending you was called away to deal with… another matter requiring his expertise. But I assure you Teigan and Adan are very capable of easing your headache.”  


The throbbing in Ghilly’s head sharpened and pulled at her thoughts making her vision lose focus. Grunting through the pain, Ghilly pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and forced herself to take deep, careful breaths. The stifling air in the cabin and the warm hand heavy on her knee were too much for Ghilly- she needed fresh air, she was certain that it would do her a world of good if she could only get outside. The air was wrong within these walls.  


“Please- I need air. I need to go outside, please.” Ghilly pushed the words out through clenched teeth, struggling to her feet.  


Asta lept up beside her, supporting her and guiding her. Ghilly shut her eyes again- trusting this stranger to lead. Asta held her weight easily, even with one arm as she opened the door and fresh, cold air streamed into their faces. Ghilly was led to a low bench just outside the door, and she lowered herself onto it, throwing her head back to rest against the wall and inhaling deeply. She could feel the burning cold in her throat and the rise and fall of her chest- but they were a comfort. A reminder that this was real and she was alive- a contrast to the pounding in her head that seemed ready to destroy her. Ghilly could feel her companion watching her, she hadn’t bothered to drop her hold around her waist, their bodies were so close that she could feel the warmth of her presence at her side. 

They remained that way, saying nothing and listening to the wind whip across the encampment occasionally sending snippets of tavern songs their way, until Adan arrived with a few others in tow- admonishing Asta for allowing her out in the snow.  


“Whatever the Seeker may say, Adan, Ghilly is not her prisoner and I will not treat her like one.” Asta bit back at him. “The fresh air is helping her.”  


Ghilly opened her eyes to examine the apothecary. Adan grumbled at the retort and those following him, including the bare-faced elven girl from before shifted uncomfortably.  


She spoke, if only to break the tension of the sudden silence. “My head-”  


Adan interrupted her before she could continue- saying they had told him of her complaints and as much as he would like to give her a potion and be done with it- mages were tricky. Give them the wrong mixture and something might set them off, or their magicka could fizzle out and they could be left worse off than they were before. He talked and talked, and Ghilly tuned him out. As he poked and prodded and asked an occasional question, Ghilly’s eyes met Asta’s and she realized that the human woman had barely taken her eyes off of her since the moment she woke. They looked at each other for a moment while Adan searched through his bag, muttering to himself and his helpers. Ghilly felt a need to break the silence rise in her, and was about to speak when Asta looked away abruptly and broke it herself. 

“I wanted to thank you- for helping me in the fade. For pulling me out. I wouldn’t have known what to do on my own.” She reached out slowly with her free hand, and held Ghilly’s gloved left hand in hers, squeezing it lightly as she had when Ghilly woke.  


“The fade...” She responded slowly, trying to recall their meeting. Her pounding head protested against the effort, but she closed her eyes and forced her mind to focus upon the blank spaces where these missing pieces should have been. The pounding in her head continued and Adan’s grumbling never ceased, but her focus remained steady. Slowly an inkling of memory came to mind, a woman shrouded in green-white light reaching out to her, her left hand clutched tightly in a stranger’s frightened grasp. As the memory welled up in her mind, the pounding in her head reached culmination and a familiar sickly green light arose, even as her left hand spasmed with pain and black waves crashed over her conscious mind once more, dragging her back into the darkness.

There was no struggle for awareness this time when she woke. She sat up with a jolt, eyes flying open and her left hand clenched into a fist- the flaring pain searing through her palm. She was alone this time, but there were three angry voices arguing just outside- about her. 

“She’s sick Seeker, she needs rest and Solas’ help. She shouldn’t exert herself. I can go to the temple with you-” This voice was familiar. Asta. 

“You have done enough. We need her mark to close the breach, you would be as useless as we are, Lady Asta.” 

“Do not use your empty titles on me, Seeker. I have told you.” 

“What does it matter? She must know something- someone was behind this attack, and you have not explained your own presence at the Conclave, avvar.” The accented voice was the quietest of them, but somehow the angriest, as if her words alone could cut you open. It gave Ghilly a strange feeling- like something she knew but couldn’t remember. “Give me five minutes with her, I can learn all about her.” 

All three women clamored to speak at the same time- and the second woman was loudest- ending the others objections with a derisive noise and shouting. “We are wasting time. I will make her come with us willingly or not.” 

A few stomping footsteps accompanied this declaration, but Ghilly was already on her feet, preparing to defend herself. The pain in her hand had stopped for the moment and she seemed to have regained her strength, though her body was sore everywhere. 

“Cassandra, stop.” 

Four steps and Ghilly was at the door, throwing it open to reveal the three women just outside. It seemed to be very early in the day, Asta looked like she had just risen from bed, in half armor- dagger in hand with no scabbard on her hip. The other two, also human it seemed, were strangers to Ghilly. The closest who had been reaching for the door, had close cropped dark hair and angular features. She was striking, scarred, and strongly built in a lithe frame. She had the stance of a warrior as well as the arms of one. The third woman was hooded and faced carefully away from the dawning sunlight as Ghilly turned to face her. All she could see was pale skin and the very ends of reddish hair. 

“I don’t remember where this came from,” Ghilly announced to them, holding up her hand, palm out, fingers stretched toward the frozen earth beneath her bare feet. “I don’t remember much of anything really, but I am feeling stronger. I suppose I have you to thank for that.” 

“Do you remember how this began? Do you remember what happened?” The hooded woman asked sharp tone and delicately refined accent clashing. 

“I only remember the green light and the woman who reached out to me.” Both strangers glanced at Asta- who looked aghast. “Not her. This woman was different. I believe she was the one who allowed me to pass through the veil. To get here.” 

She was prepared for more questions and the hooded woman seemed ready to ask them, but the warrior- Seeker Cassandra- was eager for them to move on. She commanded the hooded woman- Leliana to leave for the forward camp, assuring her that she would bring Ghilly along shortly. Leliana reluctantly turned and left them. It was a break in tension that allowed Ghilly to get a good look at her surroundings for the first time. They were in the mountains, gentle snowfall swirling above their heads, covering the ground. The new snow reflected the sickly ominous green of the sky, just over the next mountain ridge. It looked dangerous- a gathering storm ready to destroy everything in it’s path, already spewing a hail of devastation upon everything within it’s reach. Though this place, Haven (an apt name it seemed) appeared untouched by the disaster in the sky it’s people were not so lucky. Those nearby looked upon her distrustfully and with fear and hatred in their eyes. Most stayed far away- and she could see many wounded, refugees and pilgrims with soldiers and scouts and from the looks of things they had been here for more than a few days. 

“What did happen? And what is that?” She asked, nodding toward the extraordinary storm. 

The Seeker opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by Asta, who indicated her own state of dress as well as Ghilly’s. “Perhaps you can explain inside, Cassandra? So that we may dress? Neither of us will do you much good in our knickers.” 

The trio stepped inside, Asta slipping her dagger back into its sheath where it hung on the back of her chair, and wrenched open the chest of drawers next to the bed, pulling out a familiar set of clothes. 

“It’s not the greatest quality and it may be large on you, but it’s the best they have to offer.” Asta said apologetically, handing over the spare uniform. Ghilly took it, with a quiet word of thanks, and Asta went to her own armor askew on the floor by the chair. 

The seeker then explained the situation at hand. The Breach was a tear in the veil. A rift into the Fade that allowed demons to pass into this world, just as Ghilly and Asta had. There were many rifts, but the Breach was the largest and it continued to spread. Somehow, it seemed to be connected to the mark on Ghilly’s hand- the mark that had flared with the same green light. Solemnly Cassandra explained that if the Breach and the mark continued to grow- it would kill her. But she also explained that one of their allies, an expert on matters pertaining to the Fade believed that her mark could be used to close the Breach. 

“But what caused all this in the first place?” Ghilly asked struggling with her pauldrons. Asta finished pulling on her belt and came to her aid, slowly stepping in closer than was entirely polite, the human offered a timidly sly smile as she quickly finished the job, even wrapping the thick brown scarf around Ghilly’s neck, her hand lingering on her neck a half second too long. Ghilly felt the heat flood her cheeks before she could react. 

The Seeker, entirely oblivious the new tension in the small room continued her explanation. “The Breach appeared when the temple exploded- the attack on the Conclave- everyone who attended is dead. Except the two of you.” 

The accusation in her voice was clear, Asta rolled her eyes like it was something she had heard a million times before, but Ghilly was profoundly startled and confused. “You think I did this somehow? To myself?” 

“Not intentionally- clearly something went wrong. But the attack on the Conclave-” 

Ghilly interrupted. “What is this Conclave you are all talking about? What temple?”Asta and Cassandra stared at her in shock, for the outburst and the questions she was asking. They stared at her and each other for a few moments, contemplating the implications of her questions before Cassandra spoke once more. 

“We should get moving- they’re waiting.” 

The trek through the encampment was highly uncomfortable, all eyes were fixed upon Asta and Ghilly, angry and accusing. More explanations followed. Divine Justinia, the leader of the Chantry, had called for a meeting of templars and mages to settle a growing war between them- that meeting was the Conclave. Cassandra explained as they briskly made their way outside the walls and into the valley. Held at the Chantry’s recently rediscovered Temple of Sacred Ashes, the divine and this meeting was their last hope for peace, and she and all their hopes died in the explosion. Asta and Ghilly were the only survivors and therefore their only suspects. Suddenly the rift in the sky flared and Ghilly fell to her knees, clutching her left hand to her chest- crying out in pain. 

“The pulses are coming faster. We must hurry.” 

Ghilly nodded, rising with Asta’s help. They continued faster than before, and the farther they got from the gates Ghilly noticed increasing levels of destruction and debris- every now and then even passing bodies along the roadside. As she tried to ignore the carnage, she noticed Asta doing the same, pushing a mass of curls from her face and looking towards the blue parts of the sky. Glancing at Cassandra’s back and stepping closer to Asta, Ghilly whispered a question she was afraid to know the answer to. 

“How long was I unconscious?” She whispered. 

Asta continued for a few steps like she hadn’t heard. But then her stoic expression fell- revealing a softer, sadder and far more tired individual than she allowed the Seeker to see. Glancing forward, she whispered back. “You were asleep for more than a fortnight. We began to fear you were never going to wake.” 

Ghilly could feel the watchful eyes of her companion on her face. Presumably worried about how she would take the news that she had not been expected to wake- but Ghilly was far more concerned with the rifts. “What makes all of you so sure that I can close these rifts? Have you had any successes, these past weeks?” 

Asta’s face fell again and she shook her head. “We have not been able to close any of the rifts, but the more demons that come through a single rift, the more slowly they come through. We have been able to slow them down. As for the idea that you can help… It seems to make sense- however it happened, the mark on your hand is connected to the largest of them. We came through one of them, didn’t we? You pulled us through.” 

The soft affection in Asta’s gaze made Ghilly’s cheeks flush again, and as they passed through another gate, Ghilly took a few steps away, closer to where Cassandra strode across the bridge. She had no time to search her own feelings however. An increasingly common flash of green passed in front of their eyes, and the stone bridge crumbled beneath their feet, sending them all crashing down upon the bank of the frozen river below. Shaken to the core and aching from where her shoulder hit the rocks, Ghilly blinked her vision clear only to see demons rising from the ice. Cassandra and Asta were already charging into the fray, two demons before them and one flanking. She followed their example- throwing a freezing blast of air at the shade behind Asta as she used her daggers to cut the demon down. The frost held long enough for the rogue to dispatch the one in front of her, and Ghilly assisted with the second- this time calling lightning down upon both remaining enemies. They fell simultaneously, and Cassandra wasted no time in getting them moving again. 

Running now, the trio followed the river, crossing paths with nearly a dozen more demons and dispatching all of them. They reached a path of winding stairs that they climbed to find their original path- only to discover even more fighting ahead of them. Scouts in the same uniform as Ghilly, a few soldiers, and two others in no recognizable uniform fought a half dozen demons that streamed from the small rift they were surrounding. The women rushed forward to assist and with their help, the remaining demons were quickly dealt with. 

With no explanation or warning the elven man in their group grabbed her by the wrist and thrust her hand toward the rift. “Before more come through-!” 

His touch set Ghilly on fire- or maybe that was the power of the mark rushing through her to seal the rift- but the rush sent her reeling. Her head was spinning with a mix of adrenaline and magic and when the rift vanished, he dropped her wrist like the contact had burned through him as well. He was quite tall for an elven man, though it did not strike her as strange as it perhaps should have. He seemed familiar- his voice most of all, though she imagined that his sharp jawline was not something she would easily forget even if she could remember little more than her name. 

Ghilly took no part in the ensuing conversation, other than to listen to the introductions. The two strangers bantered a little which was admittedly humorous, and Asta complimented the child of the stone’s crossbow. She learned the elven man’s name- pride- or rather Solas. He was the one who had discovered the mark’s connection to the rifts and its usefulness. It was a brief conversation but she used the time to study him- in hopes she could piece together a bit of her own history- and perhaps bring a few of her memories back. It was in vain, however, no matter how familiar the cadence and timbre of his voice or how her heart ached with joy and pain to look upon his face, she remembered nothing.


	3. In My Time of Sorrow- 712 F.A.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghilan'nain tends to the sick and injured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen it yet- I did an extension on Ch. 2!

Arlathan  


712 F.A.  
(-2168 Ancient)

Hours. It had been hours since she had set foot in the bowels of the palace. The damp cold of the slaves’ quarters had set into her bones within the first few steps and she quickly began casting enchantments to spread warmth throughout the halls. The living quarters were outrageously overpopulated- the fighters, warrior champions of the tarvhen had been cramped into these rooms alongside those who lived here already. The press of bodies within the hall was overwhelming, every door open and full to bursting. The eyes that followed her path were wary, if not hostile, and she felt so small beneath the weight of their gaze, she feared she might wither away. It was little better than a prison here- beds made of straw and scarce other furniture in sight. Their path led them to the end of the hall where the guards cleared a room of its’ occupants- indicating that she should enter and begin her task. Even then she knew there were thousands of new faces within the walls in preparation for Mythal’s day, she knew her task would take weeks at the least.  


As she absently attended to a broken hand, deep in thought- Ghilan'nain wondered what consequences she might face for her evasion of Dirthamen. For all the unpleasantness of the cramped quarters, she was vastly grateful to be there because the alternative was meeting with him. When Isalathe had stopped her outside Arana’s door, she was still in shock and ill equipped to handle more confrontation. She knew she had given away too much, shown more than she should have, and from her smug expression Isalathe had known it too. In vain, Ghilan'nain had attempted to merely avoid the mute warrior by sidestepping away from her- and she had been stopped in her tracks by a bruising grip around her upper arm.  


A gasp of pain from her patient made her curse herself and mutter sincere apologies as she finished the process of wrapping the hand she was treating. The woman accepted her apology and left with a promise to refrain from striking stone walls. Watching her leave, Ghilan'nain rubbed the faint bruises on her own arm absently, reliving the path Isalathe had led through the halls- she hadn’t been greatly concerned as they began walking, but as they approached the Council’s wing of the palace she panicked. Meeting with Dirthamen was not concerning in itself- merely something to be approached with caution. However, she had treated the wounds of those who had been called to visit his private chambers (those who displeased or failed him) and knew that it was no place she had a desire to be. Her fear, combined with the stress and utter devastation of discovering that Arana had been murdered had overridden her good sense and she had broken Isalathe’s hold upon her- freezing her to the spot with a whispered spell. Then she ran, hoping with her whole being that she would be fast enough to reach the slaves quarters before Isalathe reached her. She stumbled on the hem of her nightgown more than once, ripping the lace and hem beyond recognition, but she did not stop. Everything within her shuddered with relief when she reached the final corridor and saw two familiar faces of Mythal’s guard awaiting her. Their eyes showed confusion and concern over her state of distress, but both were wise enough to ask no questions.  


The door closed behind Ghilan’nain’s most recent patient, and her eyelids weighed heavy as she rose to approach the washbasin once again. Though her patients had come slowly, reluctant to trust an unknown, the night had been filled with mentally and physically draining tasks. She had spent hours reopening infected wounds in order to heal them properly, breaking and resetting bones, treating various illnesses, diseases, and even a case or two of undernourishment- the only cases she could not help on her own. That pair- brother and sister- she sent to the kitchens with orders to be kept on bed rest and bland diets until she permitted otherwise. In all, the work had kept her busy enough to keep her mind from drifting to Arana- to the anger, confusion and deep, deep wells of sorrow that had grown within her mind. But as she washed the bloodstains from her hands, submerging them in the cool water, she thought of the friend she had lost. Arana had been unique- a loyal fighter, strong minded, and hard headed. Sometimes Ghilan'nain wondered if Arana knew just how deeply her affection ran- and now she would never know.  


A gentle knock disturbed her from her thoughts as another patient arrived. Crossing to the door, she allowed a small but heavily bruised warrior inside. He was tense, passing through the doorway with as much space between them as possible. She stepped into the hallway to allow him more space-pausing to smile and give her gratitude to the pair of guards. She remembered them from an incident years ago, and from their conspiratorial smiles they remembered her as well. That line of thinking led to Arana, however, and she reminded herself that she had a duty to attend to. Through the door she watched him hesitate in the center of the room with his back toward her, favoring one side. Curious, she stepped through the door and greeted the newcomer.  


Centuries upon centuries of living in close quarters with the Council as a subjugated individual had borne many effects. One of them, knowing when to hold her tongue and when it was safe to speak- another, was her vast and superior knowledge of magic and how to wield it. Arguably the worst, however was her firsthand knowledge of receiving, recognizing and healing the abusive punishments doled out at the Council’s whims. And she recognized it here. When he turned to look at her, she saw that his face was generously peppered with bruises, and his broken nose and black eye seemed to be the worst of them all, though many were concerning, possibly signs of more broken bones. He had seated himself in her chair, where she had positioned it by the cot. Another effect of living as a slave, even one with privileges, was that she saw this for what it was. Rebellion- forcing her to take a lower seat on the cot or no seat at all, and putting her in a position to capitulate or fight for the small dignity. His golden eyes were aflame with a fierce distaste, and she knew to approach with caution.  


She doubted he would attempt to harm her, regardless of whether he knew her identity- most of the warriors she had seen through the night merely assumed she was one of their kin forced to serve, and she let them. But her position of power over him- even if it was only a perception of power clearly set the young man’s teeth on edge, she could feel the waves of discomfort and anger roll off of him. She sensed his masters in the past had never treated him with anything but hostility, and Ghilan’nain hoped for a better future for him.  


She smiled softly at him but did not meet his eyes- lowering her own to study his hands as well as to show deference. Slow and even footsteps carried her to him, never raising her eyes, head bowed but still he grew more and more tense as she approached. His muscles tightened and as Ghilan’nain stopped in front of him he had stopped breathing completely. In further effort to put this boy at ease, she knelt in front of him slowly- her filthy, bloody nightgown gathering under her knees as she settled as low as possible, sitting on her heels.  
His shallow breathing was evident- and his gasp audible in the silence of the room and she couldn’t help but chuckle at him a little as she finally looked up to meet his eyes. “I only wish to help you, lethallin, if you will let me.”  


It took a moment of wary watchfulness, but her patience with him paid off when he nodded. Once more, she smiled at him, holding his gaze as she slowly raised her hands to his face. He was young. She knew from the softness of the lines of his face that the first century had not yet been worn away. Even so, he had fine bones, and would grow into the handsome features. She made eye contact with him as much as possible, trying to convey with her actions that she meant no harm, and he sat a still as stone. Gently she traced his strong square jaw, cheekbones, and brows, brushing his unkempt white hair out of the way-searching for any sign of fracture or significant damage and was pleased to find none. Unfortunately, his nose has not been spared. He flinched away from her touch the second her fingers made contact. It was the first hint of pain he had shown, though she had prodded at every black and blue bruise adorning his otherwise ivory skinned face.  
Settling back upon her heels, she sighed. 

“We can delay for a time, lethallin, but you need healing.” She was met with silence and an unwavering golden gaze. “If you will not allow me to mend your nose now, I can finish the rest of your examination.” Ghilan’nain rose to her feet and stepped away. “Remove your shirt, please.”  


His incredulous look was not unexpected, but the flash of fear in his eyes was too real and visceral for her to ignore. As he hesitated, frozen in the chair, she studied his posture, his face-covered in Sylaise’s valas’lin- and the new way he refused to meet her eyes. She immediately knelt again, closing the distance between them and placing her hands on his knees. 

“Will you tell me your name, lethallin?” She asked. “I promise you, you are safe with me. You will not be a victim any longer.”  


He looked impossibly young as he warred with himself, his hesitation was understandable. His independence and self-reliance were important to him-undeniably- but he needed an ally. She waited, ever patient and as unmoving as stone watching in awe and fascination as he allowed his walls to crumble. His hardened mask fell away and she saw how vulnerable he still was, his wide bright eyes meeting hers for what seemed like the first time. The weight of his trust fell upon her like an anchor- but it was a burden he was glad to bear.  


“Haleir,” he whispered to her. “I am Haleir.”  


She had to bite her tongue to keep the tears of relief and gratitude at bay, instead gently coaxing him into removing his shirt, before realizing he needed assistance. When they finally managed it, and not without a few pained complaints, Ghilan’nain was horrified to recognize signs of massive bleeding of the organs. His entire left side was black and purple, slightly misshapen with swelling and what she feared could be multiple shattered ribs. A dark and boiling rage set into her very bones once again as she surveyed his damaged flesh. She did her very best to retain her outward serenity but when Haleir began to tense up again she knew she was failing.  


Once again she sat back on her heels, putting a bit of distance between them in hopes that they could both calm themselves. Anger was not a good place to find strength- for healing least of all. With this in mind, she forced a few a shaky breaths, to calm herself and a slight smile for his sake. “Fortunately, Haleir, I can heal all of this damage. But, it will be painful. Do you think you can handle that?” She paused, and met with the silence of non-response, added. “If we wait, it will only be harder.”  


Meeting her eyes, she saw him churning the idea- and when he nodded, it was much to her relief. She fetched her waiting washbasin from its place on the dresser- ruddy water within cleaned with a thought and a scant modicum of effort. She returned to Haleir’s side and assisted him onto the bed, where he lay uncomfortably. She turned her back to him for a moment, hiking up the skirt of her gown to retrieve the simple hidden dagger strapped to her thigh. She tried to grant him another reassuring smile, but the fear in his eyes when he caught sight of the dagger broke her heart.  


Knowing that she would likely drain her reserves beyond what was wise, her compassion overran her wisdom. Impulsively, she pressed the dagger into the tender flesh of her own forearm, and his fear changed to confusion. Acting quickly, Ghilan’nain dropped the dagger and crouched by the bedside, gathering her dark red blood with her free hand. She looked the young one in the eye and commanded him to remain still. Mercifully he obeyed, as she smeared her still warm blood gently over his side. Once she had the fuel that she needed for this particular injury, a whispered spell forced her opened flesh to knit itself together again. Haleir’s eyes widened as he grasped what was happening. Not so naive that he did not know blood magic when it was paraded before him, even though the practice was rare. That was good, and even better was the fact that he remained still- his golden eyes revealing trust alongside his pain.  


Poor boy. Her heart broke again for all the pain she would be forced to inflict in order to heal. She began slowly, drawing upon the power in her own blood to mend the broken boy in front of her. His gentle expression contorted into a violent mask, and he screamed as his flesh repaired itself all at once. Damaged organs becoming whole again, battered veins, muscles and skin coming together like new. She knew the moment when the bones snapped into place once more- not only because it was her magic and her blood doing the work, but his screaming stopped and his body went entirely slack. Passed out from the pain, and all the better for it. The next few hours he would encounter lingering soreness and weakness as his body adjusted to its’ own recovery.  
Ghilan’nain slumped into the chair as she finished with the damage to his abdomen. She should not have used her own blood- the process was dangerously draining. If she gave too much… It was foolish of her to try it now, when she was already so physically and mentally exhausted, but she hated to see the fear in his eyes. She refused to be the cause. She allowed herself a moment of peace- measuring the rise and fall of Haleir’s now normal breathing. Her eyes closed of their own accord, drawing her into unknowable depths, the comfort of nothingness so tempting... Until she found herself jolting upright.  


Dangerous.  


Looking at him, she leaned in and gently traced a finger over the broken slope of his nose. Looking at it now, she saw it was not as fresh as she had originally estimated, but had already begun to set- and badly. Lamenting her situation, she forced herself to look away from the snap of bone, and was horribly thankful when a trickle of blood dripped from his nose, enabling her to remove all signs of violence from him with minimal effort from her already depleted reserves. Not all signs, exactly- they were both still covered in blood.  


Sighing with satisfaction that she had done all she could for him, Ghilan’nain rose from her place at his side. Sluggishly, her leaden feet carried her to her fallen dagger, and she had to steady herself on the dresser so she could hide it once more. Retrieving her escorts from outside to assist her, she ordered them to take him to the high slaves bathing chamber to wash and dress him, and see that he had a proper meal. At first- they refused to obey. They told her that Mythal had commanded them to remain by her side, and Ghilan'nain nearly agreed- so weary that she feared she might collapse- though she was already leaning against the open door. A glance back at young Haleir renewed her resolve however, and as loathsome as she felt in doing so, she used the only leverage she could think of in her exhausted haze.  


Their shared history, an incident of drunken misdeeds and misfortune, was something that Arana had dragged her into. Her friend had found the pair- off duty and deep in their drink trying to sneak into Andruil’s private bathing chamber. Except their plan had involved crawling through windows that rose at least fifteen feet above the nearest balcony, and neither of them had good climbing skills. Arana, their commander knew they were good guardsmen however, and had asked Ghilan'nain to help her keep the situation quiet. And she had- mending bones and scrapes, never breathing a word to anyone until now. Feeling sick to her stomach, she threatened to report them if they didn’t comply with her wishes. That ended the discussion quickly, as their faces turned sour and they each pulled one of Haleir’s arms over their shoulder, and dragging him out of the room leaving her behind-still in the doorway. To her chagrin, her bluff had been a success. But it left her with the problem of her own health. She no longer knew if they would return for her or leave her to fend for herself. Her facade of ruthlessness and command had sapped what remained of her physical strength, and her knees buckled- dropping her to the floor.  


If she had any desire to avoid falling into uthenera unprepared, she needed to replenish herself soon. Regaining her strength was vital, for she feared that the deep sleep may damage her mind, just as Falon’s dreamers warned. Without the aid of the guards, however, she was hopeless. Her only true friend was dead, and no one else would come for her. That was inescapable truth she had been avoiding all night. One of the few reasons Ghilan'nain rose from bed in the morning-her dear Arana- had been snuffed out and she could not stop herself from wondering if she would be happier joining her. She considered giving in. The temptation to stop fighting her exhaustion was nearly as irresistible as it was unnecessary. Even as she made her decision she found herself succumbing to the weightless depths of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey- just a little note asking for feedback! Constructive criticism would really help, and I would LOVE LOVE LOVE to know what you're thinking so far! Every kudos and comment is so greatly appreciated, and knowing someone is paying attention helps motivate me! Thank you for taking the time to read!
> 
> Right now, I think I'm going to keep the timelines switching between every other chapter- down the road there will be a pretty big cast of characters, so I might start alternating POVs between them sometimes (as mini chapters, maybe?) I do have a LOT of meta/lore fleshed out for this that I am very excited to get into! I'm trying to keep close to Canon!Lore, but I'm also having a ton of fun with it! ;) Thanks, all!


End file.
